


Real

by Vae



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:37:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/Vae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean doesn't even try for the good girls any more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Real

Dean doesn't even try for the good girls any more. Since Lisa, since Anna, since _Lisa_... with the stench of hell sour and cloying, heavy enough to scent each movement even if no one else can smell it on his skin, he won't try for the good girls. It's not a matter of virtue or honor. They're just too innocent to interest him.

He still likes them pretty, just aims for the girls who look like they've lived life a little. Not the professionals - he prefers a woman who wants his body, not his wallet - but the ones with the pale lines where wedding rings used to sit, the ones with the creases at the corners of their eyes and their mouths. The ones who've seen things, who'd said things, who've laughed and cried and know the taste of a little darkness. 

Truck stops and bars, clubs, motel lobbys. This one's a bar. Not the cleanest, not the classiest establishment in town, but one Dean slides into easily, blends into, beer in his hand and this girl - this one's Jenna. Long legs skinny and tanned, stretching forever below high-cut Daisy Dukes. The red on her toenails is chipped where her toes show at the end of her espadrilles, red to match her mouth, but it's a wide mouth, generous, smiles without bitterness and downs bourbon without flinching. A mouth that slides easily against his when his hand spreads wide on her back below the once-white shirt tied below her breasts. The dry ends of bleached dirty-blonde curls brush against his arms, and she's thin against him, strong against him as a promise. Hot when he strips her shirt from her, when he slides denim down those endless legs and spreads them wide, palms stroking up her thighs, thumbs pulling her open for his mouth. 

She tastes bitter, sharp as the bourbon flavoring her kisses, but she's wet for him, writhes against his mouth, whimpers when he presses his tongue into her and comes for him when he sucks on her clit, raffia heels sliding against his shoulders, and doesn't pull away when he goes straight up to kiss her. On the contrary, she meets him with enthusiasm, doesn't ask questions when he pulls her hand away from the mark on his shoulder, just wriggles down to grip his ass and pull him in closer. Her grip's tight enough that it's an effort to pull away, pull a condom from his wallet, but it's an effort that's worth it when he sees the grin on her face and the way her eyes light up as she plucks it from his fingers, flattens her free hand against his chest, and pushes.

There's laughter there. He's under no illusion that she wants anything more from him than sex, than this one night, than taking a little control because it's safer for her that way. He can see the way her thumb slides over the foil, checking for any roughness or holes. It might sting, maybe, that she doesn't trust him, but he likes it. Likes the honesty of it, likes the acknowledgment that they're both out for themselves, likes the crawl of tension across his shoulders before she nods and pushes harder on his chest. 

He rolls, flat on his back, watching her tear the condom open with her free hand and her teeth. Watching her straddle him, lifting his head to keep watching when she moves her hand from his chest to wrap around his cock, catching his breath and making him buck his hips up under her, hungry for more than her hand. He gets the roll of rubber over his cock guided down by fingers that feel like they've had plenty of practice doing this before, gets the sweet tight warmth of her pussy sliding down over him as she takes him in. 

Jenna could be any one of hundreds of girls Dean's barely met. He doesn't know her last name, doesn't know her hopes and dreams, doesn't know if she's got family, a job, a car. He doesn't know if she finished school, doesn't know where she lives. He doesn't need to know any of it. All he needs to know is that she's willing, that she wants him, that her body moves with his, that her pussy squeezes down tight around him when he strokes fingers over her clit and pulls up to lick her breasts, tongue flat and slow over one nipple before she shudders over him, digs her nails into his shoulder and whispers another man's name.

It's everything he needs from her.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Americana Ficathon on LJ at http://sister-wife.livejournal.com/15920.html
> 
> Originally posted at http://sister-wife.livejournal.com/15920.html?thread=397360#t397360
> 
> Unbeta'd.


End file.
